


A Grown Man

by LadyRoxie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Murder in Montparnasse, Naughty Dreams, S01-E07, UST, omg smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8146408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: Jack's had a rough day... Kissing Miss Fisher was just the start.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the evening of the events of Season 1 Episode 7, Murder in Montparnasse.

He had meant what he said.

He was indeed a grown man, a man of almost four decades, an officer of the law, and he had seen more than his fair share of “bare flesh”. After all, he'd been married for 16 years, and his experience on the force had lead to more occasions than he could count when he was witness to what he imagined was very nearly the full spectrum of human bonding in the carnal sense, to say nothing of the scantily attired.

In fact, Jack Robinson prided himself on his maturity, and his unflappability in the face of the indecent and unclothed; it was one aspect of the self control he knew made him a good policeman. (He genuinely hoped it was an aspect of character one could acquire with time and encouragement, or there was very little hope for poor Hugh Collins). 

So as he sat now at his kitchen table, jacket and waistcoat off, shoes and socks off, tie askew, uncharacteristically large whiskey in front of him, he was inclined to think it was the particular unfolding of today's events that put him off his game. After all, as much as he hoped she believed it was professional improvisation, he was not accustomed to suddenly (and passionately, if he were honest with himself, which at this moment, he wasn't) kissing a witness in the middle of a sting. He couldn't recall it ever having happened before; an awareness that did not sit comfortably. 

Although, he allowed, sitting a little straighter, it had worked as intended; Miss Fisher had been distracted, and if it had not been for those undisciplined raggers of hers, the whole thing might have gone off smoothly.

But the fact remained: he had kissed her.

He took a deep drink, closing his eyes against the slight burn. Definitely not as good as her whiskey. 

He might even have been able to convince her of the nobility of his motives, of having done his duty in the moment and no more, if it had not been for that blasted painting a mere few hours later. 

Under the circumstances, he had done all he could do, excusing himself with all the speed and dignity he could muster (more of the first, woefully less of the second). The idea of staying didn't bear considering. To have watched her prop up that damned painting, perhaps on the piano bench, then sashay over to the liquor cart to pour them both evening drinks... To have lingered by the mantel to chat over the facts of the case... Well, it had been an impossibility. No, he had done the professional thing, the proper thing, and bid her good evening. 

That his body had decided immediately upon seeing her reclining likeness to betray him entirely was horrifying. 

He took another gulp of whiskey, replaying his exit over in his mind, and trying to reassure himself that she hadn't noticed anything untoward. He had simply needed to leave. Somewhat quickly, and with his coat held in front of him. 

The caress of the alcohol was making him feel slightly calmer, and for a whole minute or two the knot in his belly began to loosen as his adamant version of the day's events took root in his mind with some conviction. 

But just as he seemed nearly successful in coaxing things into a tidy box much more to his liking than the truth, a vision of her body, lax and languid and laid bare before him, swam into his mind, utterly demolishing the box and the determined fiction of his response along with it.

He groaned.

He didn't want to want her.

He didn't want to find her breathtakingly beautiful and maddeningly alluring; didn't want to admit that he had imagined the taste of her lips well before he pulled that kiss out of his hat today. 

And dammit, if it hadn't been for that painting, for her eyes staring so directly into his when she peeled back the brown paper, for knowing she knew precisely what she saw there, for it not frightening her away, but (if he was not mistaken, though he hoped he was) actually _exciting_ her; if it hadn't been for all of that, he could have believed his own reasoning about that kiss.

But he had been caught in the lie, and she'd been the one to catch him. 

He refilled his glass, and drank it nearly in one go.

She'd known, the moment she met his eyes, that he wasn't what he claimed. Blushing indeed. Never mind that he didn't think he'd ever blushed before; it had been the least of his tells in that moment. 

He knocked back the rest of his drink, and pushed roughly away from the table. Tomorrow morning, he would go for a vigorous bike ride to work his body and clear his head, and if he happened to run into a certain lady detective in the coming days (he knew he would, and couldn't bring himself to mind, butterflies in his stomach aside) he would claim Professionalism to his last breath. 

He was a grown man, and could recover from a simple slip. She couldn't have known the real reason he left, he reasoned; he had hidden it well, he was sure. The sultry twinkle in her eyes was nothing more than her usual flirtatiousness. 

Yes. 

He felt better now, having decided once again to ignore thoughts, feelings, and physical responses by sheer force of will. It seemed to be working; the whiskey was helping.

Pleasantly tired and slightly fuzzy, he prepared himself for bed, even changing his sheets and opening his window so a gentle breeze floated the curtains. 

Yes. Sleep, push-bike, breakfast, work. Back to normal. 

He slept.

_His large hand follows the curve of her hip, his thumb coming to rest on the inside of the hip bone, stroking gently in a soft arc, bringing her down from her climax. He looks up at her face from his place beside the chaise... She is ecstatic, her skin glistening with her release, mouth open, chest heaving._

_He pulls his fingers from between her pale thighs, bringing them to his mouth, and shuddering with the gorgeous taste of her. She watches him, her lips curling into a wicked smile. She leans forward, the peignoir falling completely from her shoulders, and reaches down, her hand warm against his chest, her nails trailing a path towards his waistband. He is hard; straining almost painfully against his trousers. As she reaches for his fly, she lifts her face and brings her lips to his, touching, licking, retreating, then pausing. It's more than he can take, and he crushes his mouth over hers, his tongue sliding deep into her, tasting her, feeling her tongue curl and press against his. He hears a deep, rumbling moan, and realizes it's him; the sweet needy sounds she is making are making him impossibly harder, and he needs to be feel her around him more than he needs to breathe._

_She manages the buttons of his trousers and pulls him out, mewling in approval as she strokes his length with both hands. He is delirious, remembering his fingers in her folds, her wetness, her heat, and quickly positions himself over her naked chest, his cock pressing between her thighs on the fur of the divan. He wants to take her perfect breasts into his mouth, wants to feel her nipples get as sharp as diamonds against his tongue, but he can't wait, can't not be inside her now._

_She leans upward and kisses him again, deeply this time, her hands tangling in his hair before sweeping down his back to grip his buttocks._

_“Now,” she breathes, “Jack, I need you now...”_

_He nods, and fists himself in line with her opening._

_With one forceful thrust that chokes a groan out of him and a beautiful gasp out of her, he is fully sheathed, his balls pressing tightly against her bottom. He can feel every inch of her passage, tight and so wet, and he isn't sure he can last, but doesn't want this ever to end._

_“God Jack, you feel so good,” she moans, her hand coming up to pinch and squeeze her rosy nipple. The sight makes him throb, and he begins to move, slowly at first, then realizing how close she is, faster and harder. He feels her tightening, tensing, and finally her back arches and she cries out. He feels her clench all around him and he comes blindingly, almost painfully, his climax seeming to last minutes._

He woke gasping for breath, the sheets wrapped around him like a mummy's bandages. He froze, then covered his face with his hands, one thought edging out every other.

Well, fuck, Robinson. You are in serious trouble.

So much for back to normal.


End file.
